I want to have a conversation about pronoun declaration and best practices around it sparked by this aspect of the issue coming up 3 times in the past month: that asking or semi-requiring people to declare their pronouns in public can be harmful to non-cisgender people.

This is not an aspect of the issue I'd come across before. In all other discussions of declaring pronouns (usually in the context of convention badges) the general idea I got was that non-cis folks declared so that people wouldn't accidentally misgender them and folks who are cis or cis-passing were encouraged to declare to normalize the practice and not put all the work and markers on the marginalized group in this equation. This all seemed reasonable to me.

I don't remember how long ago we started, but for at least a year I've been asking Writing the Other students to declare their pronouns where their name appears in discussion areas or video chats. Just before the last class I got an email from a student concerned about this practice because they'd had discussions with nonbinary and trans friends about how pronoun declaration made them uncomfortable in situations where they might not want to be out to people about their gender.

"This makes no sense," Tulla said. She'd said about five times up to that point, as if repeating the statement would manifest someone who would then make it make sense. But that wasn't going to happen because it did not make sense.

The locket on the sidewalk was not a picture. It also wasn't a mirror, yet it was a reflection. Just of someplace that didn't exist.

The revisions that I do before I get to copy-editing are massive. MASSIVE. Like, every single word of the manuscript changes. Sometimes all the scenes are in the right order (Ha–this is never true, but we’ll pretend it is for a little while). It’s just that I have the voice wrong. Or the point of view. Or I change the rules of magic. Or I have to tweak a character’s motivations. Or the setting is now historical–or isn’t historical anymore. Or I’m now writing a series instead of a standalone. Or a thousand different changes that probably sound like they’re small in terms of scope, but in fact change every single word of the book. Because my descriptions are going to change based on how my character changes. And how I introduce the magic or offer setting details changes if the point of view is different.

A couple years back when I wrote about cultural appropriation for NPR one of the more intriguing reactions I got was multiple people saying what boiled down to "But you didn't tell me exactly what cultural appropriation is and the exact steps I need to avoid it in every possible scenario!" and then demanding I do so on Twitter or other public spaces where they could get at me. I tried to say both in the article and in subsequent discussions that the issue was far too nuanced for the exactness people were looking for, which… wasn't the answer they wanted. I thought about this again while reading Jeanette Ng's excellent piece on Medium offering advice for writers who want to create diverse fiction but worry about culturally appropriating.

Write Every Day is an oft-given and basic piece of writing advice. If you want to be a Real Writer™ you must write every day, no matter your circumstances, no matter your lack of inspiration. Put that butt in that chair and sit there and write. Every day.

The problem with Write Every Day as a dictate from on high is that it creates a huge amount of pressure. And, as author Daniel José Older explains, that doesn’t work for everyone.

These incidents have taught me how possible it is to miss things happening in close proximity to you. Sometimes not because the issue is happening in private but because the people affected aren't constantly talking about it (to avoid fueling the harasser's fire), or it happens in private spaces you don't have access to, or happens in a pocket of the Internet you don't happen to hang out in, or you have your own shit going on, or whatever.

It upsets me that this stuff happens over and over. The only silver lining I can see is that people seem more willing to finally talk about what's going on in private when they're being hurt or abused or gaslit, and the response from the community at large trends toward the supportive more often than not.

However, there are some lessons from this that I want to hammer home as hard as I can.

I don't plan to repost the old Friendly Fridays here, though I'm making an exception today. Why? Because today is the birthday of the illustrious Alethea Kontis, who is not only my dear friend but also the person who came up with this great concept. Wish her a happy birthday by dropping a buck or two into her birthday fundraiser :)

If you've been following me for a while, you may recognize Alethea's name from my frequent visits to Florida. She and I have ranted about fairy tales together, challenged people together, and had magical times at the Space Center as well as the beach. Most of the time when I tell people I know her they ask: "So, the princess thing--is she like that ALL the time?" As with most beautifully complex people, the answer is a complicated mix of yes and no.

I'm a sucker for some cute fuzzyness and big eyes just like anyone with a soul. However, there's something extra special about these ones. The creator, Justine, has an artist's eye for what colors will work well together and creating creatures that have a definite personality.

Tamar let the Dragon complain until his complaints ran out. He'd pay for it later when the Dragon got bigger. Didn't take too long for that to happen, but maybe by then he would be a Dragon himself and nothing could hurt him.

The space where the Vagabond Café exists right now used to be the basement apartment at 7 Cornelia Street. Anyone who walks into the café has a hard time figuring out how it could ever have been big enough for a person to live comfortably. Or, at least, confused as to why anyone would agree to pay $7,000 a month for the privilege.

"It's the West Village," Brooklynites explain as if they know (since there's no other way for a Brooklynite to say anything). "What do you expect? Rents are ridiculous and everything is too small."

It is true that in the West Village rents are ridiculous on tiny apartments, but even at that $7,000 is more than anyone would pay for a studio with half a kitchen and a dubiously safe "bathroom". Anyone but a musician. And the landlord knew it.